Nine In The Afternoon
by Dark Flamingo
Summary: The sky is falling off the ceiling, and I could stop her from falling from the windowsill, but it's what she wants. Drowned in raindrops that have never tasted so sweet as they poisoned her brain.


With good intentions, I meant to write a LarxNami. Now... I'd like to think is Riku!Replica goodness. Kudos if you can pinpoint where Sora is mentioned. I hope you understand.

_Heavily_ influenced by Panic At The Disco.

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_She's steam, laughing on the windowpanes._

Well, she _knew_ something more. I could tell, in the way her bright blue eyes twinkled when she smiled that small, forgiving little smile. It was in every line she drew, and every crumbled crayon on the white floor.

When she lowered her eyes and curled into herself, I could still see that a corner of her mouth was plucked by an invisible hand, and her fingers still led that confused little crayon across the page, and wrote margins in the corner. Watching her was scary, she'd start with a couple strokes, and then switch to another colour and rapidly fill the page, letting the paper tumble dead to the ground.

And things would change. A change in heart, a change in faith.

_She's the smoke, she's dancing fancy pirouettes._

She didn't move, hardly anyways. A faint change of position, shifting of calves, resettled grip. In between pictures where daydreams would spill, little deaths curled around her nails, she'd brush her hair carefully from her eyes and spare the room a glance, a hopeful glance, I noted, as if she could draw her way out of this nightmare.

But who ever heard of white nightmares and black daydreams?

She didn't move, hardly anyways. Little bits and pieces of a complex dance shattered on the floor. She didn't really move, but I horded every little twitch of her fingers like lightning rods horde electricity. Like I horded electricity.

_She's the clouds, singing a song, marching along._

Her voice, when she decided to use it, was as quiet and shy as a tip-toeing mouse. She was weak, and her voice was just an echo of this. She'd grab a crayon and draw the world before it happened, and she'd stare out the window, wishing to drink up the sun and bask in the rain.

She won't ever get what she wants, and is about as fragile as a diamond, but her voice is a little tear drop in the back of her throat. She's just a medicine cabinet addict waiting to happen. And to her the world is a dream in someone else's head, and He isn't sharing. He's looking for his princess inside her, on the other side of the needles and paper cuts.

She's not talking, she's just dreaming. And everything she touches turns to a nightmare, and she's as dead as she's going to get. She's just like broken glass to me.

_She's holding the world on a string, always inches from the paper._

When I look at her eyes I don't see them, I see the sky. Blue beyond words dotted with soft dreams waiting to be caught. And her smile tells me she knows, and her face tells me she could love me. But I'm out of my mind, and she's trapped. In a cage hand-drawn by her herself.

She's got the world pinned under her crayon, but she couldn't ever catch me with those fingers. If I knew how to lie, if I could lie like her, with papers and ink and fairytales twirled around her neck, then would I get a maybe? If I could make-believe that I loved her like him, and then jump over the paper-cuts and take home the princess, would she love me?

I'm just passing the time, she's just passing time by. And when she's caught those finicky clouds, what will she do? Living there, halo in her hair, crying for the life she'll never have. For all the feathers she's lost to the moon. And her smile will always know, and her fingers will always lie, but she will always be alone.

I could save her from walking off the windowsills, from sleeping in the rain. But she wants it, to drown in raindrops that have never tasted so sweet as they poisoned her brain. There isn't any sunshine in her world, and she'll be the one to reinvent forgiveness. As it lingers in the sky and drifts away to the sun, while she waits in the grass.

Always alone on the windowpane and the whiteness of her hell she will never wake from. And the rest of the world will be happy to know, there are only good dreams to come, as her crayons drip to the floor in molten wax and the clouds get caught on her string and float down to the ground, seeping into others' dreams, and never hers'.

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...review? (if asking helps, then I'll ask. And ask, and ask, and ask.)


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